by Graham Brown
Simon had once admired Henrick’s dedication, but it bordered on obsession.
“Aldo was not your only mistake made tonight,” he told Henrick. “This is not a clan leader. It’s nothing more than one of the infirmus. A bottom-feeder. You’ve revealed our presence to destroy a scavenger.”
Henrick’s jaw tightened. “I disagree. You saw its power. How do you explain it so easily taking the mind of your driver? The echo of its destruction?”
Simon didn’t like the real answer, but he could not deny it. This demon was a bottom-feeder, he knew that, but it was also stronger, far stronger, than it should have been. He glanced up at the storm building above them.
“Their power grows,” Simon explained ruefully. “Even among the weakest.”
“You believe this?”
Simon nodded. He had long suspected it, but he was now all but certain. At each step over the last year, he’d seen the evidence. He’d seen the signs. There could be only one explanation.
“The dark time of the prophecy is almost upon us, Henrick. For them—and for us—the reckoning will soon begin.”
CHAPTER 12
Cologne, Germany
WAVES OF sound washed over the crowd at the iconic opera house at the center of Cologne known as Haus Gürzenich. The music rose like colored light and lingered like jasmine and rose.
For reasons Christian could never know, music had a way of breaking through and reaching his kind. As the rhythms swirled around him, it brought a momentary release from the prison of a disconnected existence, especially in large crowds. Perhaps it was because each patron in a great hall like this experienced the same waves of energy and sound, the same rise and fall of the instruments as they built to a crescendo.
Perhaps the alignment of thoughts and emotions brought on by the music transcended both time and space. Like a shared dance. Or maybe it was just his imagination, but as he sat and absorbed the beauty emanating from the stage, the music somehow touched his dead soul.
As the symphony finished and an ovation rose up, Christian opened his eyes. Caught up in the moment, he’d lost track of why he’d come to the concert hall in the first place. That reason was now leaving the building somewhere.
He glanced around quickly, caught sight of a diminutive man who was headed for the exit, and followed.
A moment later, he was out on the plaza. The night air was cold, just above freezing. The overcast sky caught the lights of the city, changing the dull color of the clouds to a washed-out orange glow. A short distance away, a pair of sleek trains passed in opposite directions on the Hohenzollenbrucke Bridge.
In the other direction, the great spires of Cologne Cathedral towered into the night. Lit up from below, majestic and slightly greenish in tint, the great structure loomed over the city like a watchman, its gothic facade hiding secrets that few but the highest members of the Church would know.
One who might was Morgan Faust, the man Christian now followed. Faust was officially listed as a caretaker, but his education proved him to be a man of letters, a scholar who held doctorates in theology, history, and Latin. A passion for classical music seemed another obsession, and after Christian had learned that Faust would attend the symphony tonight, he’d decided to join him at a distance.
He tracked Faust along the promenade that ran in front of the river. The man seemed drawn and thin, even at five foot four. He wore a dark-charcoal overcoat with a wool scarf and leather gloves to fight off the cold. His hair and beard were gray, and he walked with a slight hitch in his gait.
He traveled slowly, not a man in a hurry. He probably had few cares in the world at this point. But his route was odd. His path was taking him away from the cathedral.
Christian wondered where he was headed.
Faust continued along the promenade and turned away from the river. Four blocks later, he turned down another lane, and then he stopped in front of an old bookstore. The store was well lit, but it didn’t appear to be open. No one was moving around inside.
Faust knocked once and then twice more. A figure opened the door a crack, glanced up and down the street, and then let Faust in. A second later, the door closed, and the outside lights went dim.
Christian waited a few minutes and then moved forward. He put his hand to the door and listened.
He heard voices inside. An argument, he thought. No, just a negotiation.
“We had an understanding,” Faust said. “Five hundred euros. Which is too much to begin with.”
“That was the price,” the shopkeeper replied. “But not anymore. I have another offer. A collector willing to pay three times that. Besides, I thought you were buying for the Church, not your personal assortment. With the Church, there are reasons to give a discount. But what can you do for me?”
It sounded as if the man was mocking Faust.
“You had an agreement with me, Ulrich,” Faust said. “A man should keep his word.”
“Good luck finding that these days.”
With the two men arguing, Christian sensed his chance. He turned the handle and pushed the door open, breaking the lock. Stepping through, he closed it behind him. A thin infrared beam stretched across the front foyer, perhaps to notify the owner when customers entered. Christian placed his hand in the beam. It passed right through, as if he weren’t there.
Still, it would sense his clothes. He stepped over it and into the back room.
The two men turned in shock.
“The store is closed,” the shopkeeper blurted out, stepping from behind the table. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow if you want something.”
“Sit down,” Christian ordered, staring into the shopkeeper’s eyes.
The man stopped in his tracks. He took a step backward and sat. His face went blank; he stared forward as if looking off into the far distance or perhaps into an abyss.
Christian turned his attention to Dr. Faust.
The wiry little man stepped backward, bumping awkwardly into a bookshelf. His hands were trembling; he kept his gaze deliberately from Christian’s face, looking at the floor.
“You are Nosferatu,” Faust whispered.
“I’ve been called that many times,” Christian said. “But that’s not who I am.”
“Why have you come here? I’ve done nothing to you.”
Christian nodded and stepped toward him. “You’ve done no harm to me, this is true.”
“Then leave me,” Faust said. “I will not speak of you. I will tell no one of this encounter. The Church will not send out the hunters.”
“The Ignis Purgata already know of my existence,” Christian said. “They will hunt me whether you speak of this night or not.”
Faust looked at the bookstore owner, who remained catatonic.
Christian considered what he’d seen in the shopkeeper’s mind. “He’s cheating you,” he told Faust, having sensed the owner’s thoughts. “He has no other buyer.”
Faust continued to look anywhere but at Christian. “He knows me too well. He knows how much I love the old books. At least it’s only money. You fleece people’s souls.”
The accusation hit a chord in Christian that he fought to resist, for he had done his damage over the years. In truth, he was surprised that Faust had the guts to accuse him, considering the fear that seemed to grip him. An inner strength must have filled him. His hand had gone to the crucifix around his neck. He held it tight.
Christian paused. There were mysteries of his kind that baffled him to this day. The pain his kind felt upon the sight of a crucifix was a phenomenon that he could not explain. He would have liked to believe it was superstition, but he had felt it intensely at times, like blinding light cast into eyes that had grown used to the dark.
For now, Faust gripped the crucifix, covering it, holding it tight.
“Leave me, Nosferatu,” Faust said, looking up. “Or I will force you to.”
Faust made a mistake of meeting Christian’s gaze. Christian stared coldly, his lifeless black eyes invadi
ng Faust’s mind. He could read Faust’s thoughts, not every word or construct, but enough to know the story of his contemplations.
Likewise, Faust could now feel Christian’s thoughts, if he dared look into the darkness that was to be found there.
“What do you want?” Faust whispered.
“Answers,” Christian said. “Forever, I’ve been seeking answers. Some of which your church has hidden away.”
Faust’s hand slid off the crucifix; it dropped back under the neckline of his shirt. “The knowledge I have is not meant for you.”
“Who has the right to make that judgment?”
Faust was silent.
“You are a learned man,” Christian added, “a man who does not accept what he is told without making up his own mind. If you were in my position, you would also quest for the truth.”
“Truth…”
“Veritas,” Christian said.
“Veritas,” Faust repeated.
Faust was completely mesmerized now. Not catatonic like the shopkeeper, but thinking, feeling, connecting with Christian. It was slightly possible that he could have torn himself away and Christian would have been forced to take what he needed from Faust’s mind by force, but the man’s guard had come down. He was no longer in fear of Christian; he was interested, curious.
“You understand what I seek?”
“The origin of your curse,” Faust said.
“But you don’t know it,” Christian said, reading Faust’s thoughts.
“I know where the answer might lie,” Faust said. “Below the western spire of the cathedral lies a circular vault. It can only be reached via a small hidden staircase. One way in, one way out. The vault itself is fireproof, and there are cameras that will see you. The letters of old lie within it. I am the caretaker of these sacred items; I know what rests inside, though I have never seen them myself.”
Christian nodded. “There are combinations, locks, passwords. You will give them to me.”
Faust nodded. As the numbers and codes flashed into Faust’s mind, they also imprinted themselves on Christian’s. But hearing Faust’s thoughts, Christian realized there was another layer of security he could not penetrate without Faust being present.
“Finish your business and meet me at the cathedral,” Christian said.
“I’m not due back until tomorrow night,” Faust said.
“Then tomorrow night we shall meet. Until then, you will forget about me.”
Faust nodded, and Christian turned to go. He put his hand on the door, but a whisper from Faust stopped him from opening it.
“He wanted to die,” Faust said.
Christian turned. Faust wasn’t even looking at him; he was just staring into the distance. The words were a reverberation of the last thoughts in Faust’s mind before the bond was broken, as if he were talking in his sleep. Most likely Faust wouldn’t even remember speaking them.
“He could no longer hear the music,” Faust muttered. “He could no longer perform. He could no longer converse with others or enjoy their company. He was forced to live alone, as if he’d been banished. He wrote to his brothers of suicide…”
It took a moment for Christian to realize that Faust was speaking about the composer Beethoven, who’d become deaf at the very height of his career. The book Faust had been intent on purchasing contained some of Beethoven’s letters, though not the famous Heiligenstadt Testament that told of his desire to die.
“He chose to live,” Faust said finally. “Not for himself, but for the sake of the gift, for what he could give to the world. Even though he could no longer hear the music, others could. So he composed and he lived for them.”
Christian studied Faust and considered the words he’d unknowingly spoken. He wondered if the caretaker had glimpsed the pain Christian tried so hard to hide. If Faust had seen past the veil when their minds were connected and become aware of the many times Christian had contemplated suicide. And if so was he trying to soothe that pain, or was it just a reaction, an act as unconscious and unintentional as talking in one’s sleep.
Christian couldn’t be sure, but whatever triggered it, the words reached him more deeply than he would have believed possible.
He glanced at the shopkeeper and then back at Faust.
Offer him two hundred euros. For that, he’ll give you what you seek.
Faust sat down, and Christian turned and left the bookstore.
CHAPTER 13
Vatican City
SIMON LATHATCH sat at a five-hundred-year-old desk in an office that had belonged to the Ignis Purgata for centuries. The cold and damp of the rainy spring day had seeped into the poorly heated room and into Simon’s old bones. Standing at the entrance was Aldo, his driver, his friend.
Simon stood and ushered him through the door. “Come in, Aldo. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”
Aldo shut the door and made his way to the other side of the large conference table. He moved oddly now, with a limp. He spoke with a stutter. “I’m…I’m…I’m sorry I failed you.”
Simon had made many mistakes in his day, but this one hit home. He’d never been sure if Aldo was truly made of the stuff their order required. Most of the hunters were hard men—strong, yes, but more willful than Aldo, who was always eager to please.
Aldo was faithful and God-fearing, but too kind and understanding, too willing to believe there was good even where evil reigned: traits that did not mix well in a war with the demons.
Simon helped Aldo to sit and then took a chair beside him. “No, my son. It is I who has failed you. I should have trusted my instincts. You were not ready. Perhaps, in another time, you would have been, but not now, not in these days. Things are in motion now which make this time different than all the days of our past.”
“I…I…don’t understand,” Aldo said.
“Had that demon been as it should have been, weakened and drained, you would have been safe. It would have been a small first step for you, and you would have taken it with ease. But you could never have been ready for the assault he directed at you.”
“But it was…it was…” Aldo stopped and tried to clear his mind and make his tongue obey his thoughts. “It was so strong.” He spat out the words, forcing them from his mouth.
Simon nodded sadly. “Far stronger than it should have been.”
“How?”
Simon took a deep breath. “You will not understand all I say, but since it has affected you, I will try to explain. All things in this world are balanced by their opposites. Day with night, heat with cold. Flood and drought. A time approaches when new light will appear in the darkness. As it grows brighter and stronger, it threatens the source of the evil we fight. But as things are balanced, the demons also gain new strength in this time. They are all growing stronger, and they will continue to do so until the greatest of opportunities and the greatest of all perils share a single moment, when the demons will either be extinguished or reign supreme.”
“But…surely good always trumps…evil.”
“One day it shall,” Simon agreed. “But even John’s Revelation tells us of a thousand years of darkness.”
Aldo nodded. “I…understand. I’m ready to…ready to…rejoin the fight.”
Simon smiled like a proud father, but a hint of sadness could be seen. He put a hand on Aldo’s shoulder. “Aldo, my brave son,” he said, “I’m afraid the fight is over for you. The Church will have greater use for you elsewhere.”
“But I have…earned my place,” Aldo stated with emphasis.
“The conditions under which one is allowed in the order are very clear. None can be controlled. Once possession has taken place, expulsion from the order is mandatory. I have no choice. It is our law for fifteen hundred years.”
Aldo looked crestfallen, his zeal and desire to be part of the order now cutting at his own heart like knives.
“I have…something else of value,” he said quietly.
“You’ve much of value,” Simon assured him.
“You don’t understand,” Aldo managed. “I can…hear them.”
Simon looked up, studying Aldo more keenly. “What do you mean?”
“Their voices,” Aldo said. “Or their thoughts. I hear them thinking. At first, it was too much. Like a crowd in a room. But it’s less now. Sometimes… It is clear to me. Sometimes I can hear just one.”
Simon felt ill. For a moment, he did not speak, trying to discern the right course of action. Aldo’s mind had been wounded far worse than he’d thought.
The fiery destruction of the Fallen was believed to be the beginning of their eternal damnation in hellfire. At times in the past, demons put to death in this way were known to have called out in many voices, male and female, old and young. It was thought to be an echo of the souls they’d stolen, the humans they’d turned and made part of their clans, the minds they’d invaded.
It seemed as if this echo had somehow imprinted itself on Aldo, perhaps because he had been connected with the creature when Simon destroyed it.
“Have you told anyone of this?”
“No one,” Aldo said. “Not even…the doctors.”
Simon took a great breath. “That’s for the best. These are merely echoes, Aldo. They will fade in time. But this is precisely why you must be expelled. Such effects are dangerous to our mission.”
Aldo looked down at the ground. “I…I don’t think they’re echoes. I think they’re real.”
“Of course you do, my son.” Never in the long war had Simon felt such abiding sadness. His mistake had damaged the truest of souls, perhaps irreparably. He had no choice.
“Aldo Gruvaleu,” he said, “I release you from your duties today, the seventeenth of April. Tomorrow you will journey to the Monastery at Lake Maggiore on the border of Switzerland. It is a place of peace and great teaching. There, you will heal. And this will be forgotten. The echoes will fade, and you’ll begin a new life in the service of the Lord.”
Aldo blinked, and then, finally, sadly, he nodded.
“In a way, I wish I could join you,” Simon insisted. “It has been many years since my path was not dominated by the great struggle.”
